


Zamioculcas and popsticles and wine

by JaskiersHorn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon compliant future, Commitment, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Home, Implied sexy time, Just a fluffy drabble, Love, M/M, Moving In Together, yucky feet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 11:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19666201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaskiersHorn/pseuds/JaskiersHorn
Summary: When Stiles’ work brought them halfway across the world their apartment did not come cheap and was probably the most jarring purchase – and decision – in Derek's life so far.





	Zamioculcas and popsticles and wine

**Author's Note:**

> The need to write fluff should not be subdued, am I right or am I right.

When Stiles’ work brought them halfway across the world their apartment did not come cheap and was probably the most jarring purchase – and decision – in Derek's life so far. The purchase made them both acutely aware that they needed to think about their budget for the rest of the household; what they chose to fill their new home with. Derek looked back on that day with fondness; a new inner calm had grounded him when he signed the papers, and he could literally see how Stiles’ shoulders retreated from his ears when months of unceasing tensions released. His sigh had been one for the ages, propably causing a blip on the Richter scale. It made Derek wonder what else Stiles had been fretting about. He knew they both needed a recovery period: they no longer lived in suspense, were no longer rearranging their schedules and badgering each other with anxiety-driven texts about whatever new object was on the market; they had a home, finally. A home they shared together, after years of side-stepping the prospect that their weird transition from friends to a romantic item didn’t need to adhere to that unspoken expiration date, after all. Was that what Stiles had feared - Derek changing his mind; packing his bags and deciding Stiles wasn’t worth him moving continents and leaving his life behind? 

They were incredibly fortunate with the apartment itself: it came with a guest bedroom perfect for when the scheriff or their friends came to visit, and it was walking distance to Stiles’ job. Their building was old enough to boast large windows that let in plenty of light but offered shade a during critical hours of the day thanks to a rounded extension. Derek wasn’t born a decorator. Steered by some diffuse claim of durability he decided to forgo the delicate plants that would most likely succumb to the heat in a week and bought simple zamioculcas with tough, deep green leaves and sturdy roots. He intentionally neglected to purchase curtains, to the exasperation of Stiles who in comparison was more suave regarding interior design, because he liked the square shape of the window and the narrow view of the bay from their fourth floor. Stiles huffed a bit for show but stopped when Derek decorated the window corner with a pile of his most frequently read books: his greatest collection. Derek’s carefully selected books weren’t necessarily classics but ones he had fallen madly in love with during the time he’d read them. He did not intend to find excuses whoever house guest chided him. Which no one ever did.

They placed a couch directly under the window: a couch with its cushions so soft that it felt like his ass traveled to another dimension when he sat down. When Stiles came home he found, in nine cases of ten, Derek on the couch with his legs out-stretched, a book in hand. When Derek came home he frequently found Stiles there, with the laptop balancing on his thighs and ginormous earphones squeezing his head. On one memorable afternoon, Derek caught Stiles in the act of dirtying up the couch. He was sweating, splayed on the cushions only wearing boxershorts and with a popsicle in his mouth, a decision which Stiles firmly stood by – the day temperature had reached 40 degrees Celsius for nearly a week by then, and a man deserved the right to cool off in the privacy of his own home. The breeze from the open windows did nothing to disturb the hair plastered over his forehead. Stile thought it wise to make his defence speech while hastily sitting up and promptly dropped the top half of the popsticle... it shamelessly rolled off his chest and disappeared in the cushions. Derek followed its course and considered frowning, but the trail it left behind on Stiles’ bare skin was distracting. He envisioned what they could do to further ruin the couch now that the ice cream and Stiles’ sweaty back had already made the preparatory work. He peeled off his own shirt, got what he needed out of the freezer and - after he’d strategically straddled Stiles’ hips and effectively pinned him with his body weight and teasing smile - closed the window. They didn’t need the neighbors to complain about the sweet noises Stiles was capable of. 

Their coffee table had been a second hand bargain. Its glass top was usually obscured by electronics, candle holders and, during lazy, late nights, two wine glasses and a bottle of red.  
It wasn’t uncommon for them to spend hours sharing the couch in comfortable clothing, but the limited leg space quickly led to complications: The soles of Derek’s bare feet pressed against the soles of Stile's bare feet – which were broad enough to resemble a penguin’s flippers, and gnarly enough to be an orthopedics’ wet dream. They were frequently engaged in a stubborn war over boundaries by nudging each other's feet over the invisible dividing line between their two cushion kingdoms. Derek’s leg strength kept him at an advantage, but Stiles was Stiles, who tended to not care about collateral damage when he was challenged and especially when Derek’s facial expression remained perfectly aloof and unbothered. Sooner or later all appearances of diplomacy got violently crushed to smithereens by an impatient Stiles using Derek's feet as his private bicycle pedals, and Derek had to focus on groin protection rather than what remained intact on the coffee table.  
Within months the couch fabric was decorated with spots from countless dropped food items, knocked over wine and spilled coffee, but Derek's peace of mind remained. He regarded the spots as evidence of how relaxed they continued to feel in each other’s company, and of their apartment becoming more and more their shared sanctuary from their fast-paced lives in the outside world. The road that lead them here had been crooked and hazardous. What they had now hadn’t come without sacrifices, but that knowledge made the present state of things that much more important. Derek felt genuinely grateful and he was sure he wouldn’t replace his life with Stiles for anything, not even sovereign rule over the couch.


End file.
